Hard Potion

Hard Potion sits in my palm, a squat bottle of stubborn glass, its shoulders rounded like a fallen moon. The liquid inside is a hazy amber that swirls with the weight of a held breath, beads of light catching on a film that clings to the sides. A cork stopper pokes through a wax seal scored with a guild crest, and the label reads 'Hard Potion' in weathered script. The texture is syrupy at a glance, yet when I tilt it and brush the rim with my lip, it feels slick and alive, as if the potion remembers every fight it's survived. Some say the scent carries a whisper of iron and pine, with a trailing note of copper that reminds a body of its own pulse. Lore says it is brewed where engineers and apothecaries meet, at the edge of sieges and camps, a stubborn elixir poured for those who must stand their ground when fear rattles the teeth of the enemy. On the field, a hard potion does more than quiet hunger; it steadies the breath and mends the body in stubborn, practical ways. When you crack a hard potion and swallow, the world tightens at the edges; warmth blooms along the spine, and limbs remember how to move with intention. It does not grant invincibility, but it buys seconds you need: a sprint into cover, a line of sight for a shot, a final push to repair a broken shield. Scouts who endure long watches, siege crews who crawl from ruin to ruin, and healers who want their patients to stay conscious long enough to return the favor prize it. Some say it carries a blessing of persistence, others that it banishes fatigue for a moment and lets a hand finish the task at hand. Whatever the truth, those who carry Hard Potion know its weight in their packs and the debt of its promise when they raise a bottle to dawn that refuses to break. Beyond the lines, the Saddlebag Exchange is a tent-row mosaic where traders bargain as the sun climbs. I found a stall with Hard Potions, their amber surfaces catching light, and a trader hawking stories as currency. He weighed the bottle, tapped the cork, and spoke of danger to come and routes cut by brigands. The price shifted with the market’s mood—silver in ordinary hours, higher if a siege loomed, lower for bulk buys or a courier who could vouch for reliability. He urged me to take a dozen for the road, to guarantee a steady hand along a long march, reminding me that the world forgets a hunter's name but never the bottle that kept them moving. I bought one, tucked it into the saddlebag, and stepped back into the chorus of stall-voices and hoofbeats, realizing that the potion's reputation travels not just because it heals, but because it carries a quiet oath: endure, by choice, for one more mile. And as the vendor counted coin, Saddlebag Exchange buys tomorrow.